The silks are violet, rich as springtime.

Rose from the River doesn’t acknowledge Chen at first. She simply sets each article neatly onto the low table to one side: the tight top, the voluminous pair of trousers; the slightly less transparent bra and panty set, emblazoned with Keron’s sigil; the veil, thick and decorated with silver swirls; the gaudy hoops, the heavy rings and bracelets, the amethyst for her navel; then the collar and cuffs, set down with a definitive clink. Finally, rope, white, whisper-soft, in coils, and folded kerchiefs and panties and scarves, one after another after another, soft and smothering.

Only after making sure Chen’s fate is laid out in front of her does Rose from the River stand, make her way over to the princess in chains (without so much as a word) and kneel in front of her, hands on her thighs, butt on her heels, the very picture of grace. She holds there for a moment— long enough to make a certain silly someone wonder if that’s all Rose from the River intends to do, to simply sit there and wait for further instructions from the Countess.

Then Rose from the River reaches out with one silk-soft hand and tilts Chen’s head up, and up, and up, and shuffles closer so that there’s more Rose from the River to look up to. Close enough that if she removed her hand, Chen could bury her face in the pillows on offer. Close, but for that gentle and inexorable hand.

“Hello, girlfriend,” Rose from the River says, and her almost-visible smile is both fond and wicked. Her thumb finds Chen’s lower lip and presses down, the nail resting against her teeth. “I waited [i]so[/i] patiently for you to come and save me. I should have known better.” Her tone is low, but not serious. Not cruel. “You took one look at me and got [i]jealous,[/i] didn’t you~? That’s why you’re here now.”

She leans in close, close enough that the hem of her veil brushes against Chen’s mouth, and laughs. “[i]Girlfriend.[/i] When I was young, you had to ask first. Is it the custom here to simply decide?” That thumb slips in deeper, presses Chen’s tongue to the floor of her mouth.

“Or maybe you couldn’t help yourself,” Rose from the River continues, sibilant. “Maybe you took one look at me helpless and fell in love. Is that it, hmm~? Poor little Chen, at the mercy of her heart! But I can’t blame you.”

The thumb drags on the back of her teeth on the way out. Rose from the River drags it lazily against Chen’s pleasantly plump cheek, restraining herself from embracing her and smothering her and claiming her. That’s not how the scene goes. Not yet. She is always acting in one way or another; she has simply been given permission to take on a different persona now. Thank you, mistress.

Rose from the River straightens, leans back, crosses her wrists above her head in a clash of bangles. “What do you think of me now, [i]darling~?[/i]” She sways like a snake about to strike, or a snake lulled by music, or a coin on a string. “Do you like this? Do you want this?” She’s so close, and that’s the most enjoyable part, knowing that no matter how far forward Chen leans, her hands manacled behind her back, she’s just a breath away from being able to touch Rose from the River, but not allowed to close that final sliver. Not yet. “What my [i]mistress[/i] has made of me~?”

She lowers her hands, cups herself, lifts— right in front of Chen’s face— and then lets them fall. They’re [i]heavy,[/i] Chen. But so [i]soft,[/i] too.

“Do you want me?” And that is not part of the performance. Even Rose is allowed truth, even if it’s hidden in veils and finery. She wants to hear it. She needs to hear it. After that, the torment can continue: the teasing, the seduction, making Chen beg to be owned and made helpless.

But more than she wants to obey the Countess, Rose wants to hear from Chen’s own lips that she’s wanted: not as a weapon, not as a bodyguard, but as a [i]woman.[/i] The way Yin didn’t want her. The way she’s only been wanted when she’s worn someone else’s face. (And while she might make some changes to this face, now that she is at the helm of her own mind again… it’s still hers. It’s more hers than any face anyone else has ever kissed.)